


Poison

by randi2204



Category: Voltron: Defender of the Universe, Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sven has been very, very different since his return from Doom.  About the only thing he thinks he can count on is Hunk's love for him.  That... and one other thing.  But then Hunk isn't there any more...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Technically, this is a side-fic to a much longer work that, regrettably, never was finished. However, it stands well on its own, and was originally posted that way.
> 
> Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron.

Sven had been staring at the darkened ceiling for a long while before his breathing calmed.  He was really awake this time.  And he only knew he’d been asleep at all because he still saw horrible images that couldn’t possibly be real – _could they?_ – playing over and over again in his mind.  His heart was beating far too fast in his chest; his head was just starting to ache.  Levering himself upright didn’t help matters any, but when the pain intensified, it was too late to do anything about it, except to groan.  He discovered that he was wearing his pajama pants, though he couldn’t remember putting them on. 

 

And somehow, that wasn’t quite as disturbing as it ought to have been.  In fact, it had become quite familiar of late.

 

He slumped on the edge of the bed for a moment, waiting for the pounding in his head to subside a bit, for the room to stop spinning about him.  The room eventually obliged.  His head did not.  That was nothing new, either.

 

What had woken him up was the same thing that always woke him up now, the same thing that kept him from finding any peaceful sleep at all.  _The dreams_ , he thought with a ragged sigh.  _Always the damned dreams…_ In frustration, he ran a hand through his hair.

 

_Sharp prickling pain in his scalp as a hand clenched in his hair and yanked his head back.  Lotor hovered over him, grinning demonically._

 

He took a hissing breath and jerked his hand away, sitting straighter as the memory seared him.

 

_Back arching, trying to get away from the lick of the lash.  Bottom lip chewed to bloody rags to keep from screaming, matching the ruin of his back, and useless in the end…_

 

“Get out!” he growled, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw sparks.  His back started to burn again as he remembered, and his stomach clenched.  His breath came faster, faster, until he was nearly panting.  “Get out!”

 

_“Get out!  Leave me the fuck alone!” Whirling to present his back to his tormentor._

 

He bent over double, in spite of the way any movement made his head throb, arms now crossed over his stomach, feeling like he was going to throw up.  Memories danced remorselessly through his mind, recent and ancient following no rhyme or reason, each more painful than the last.  Unable to keep himself from rocking slightly, he prayed they would just stop…

 

_“No, stop!  Stop!”_

 

At last, a faint whimper broke from his lips.  “Please… I can’t…” _I can’t take any more_ , he finished despairingly. 

 

And, as if waiting for that desperate plea, the uncontrollable fragments settled back into their hiding places.  It was some minutes before he was able to take a breath that didn’t sound more like sobbing to his ears.

 

There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt.

 

Struggling to get his bearings again, he suddenly wondered why there were no strong arms embracing him, why he was sitting trembling and alone.  “Hunk?” he called softly, and shivered anew at the rusty quality of his voice.

 

_He’s not here,_ came the reply, a smug sounding voice from the furthest corner of his mind.  _He_ left _, remember?_

 

Perhaps as that cruel voice – surely not his conscience? – had intended, Sven felt his heart constrict, and he closed his eyes once more, trying to keep the wave of pain at bay.  “No,” he whispered.  “No…”

 

_It’s probably just as well.  I mean, he didn’t really love you anyway._

 

“He loves me, he…”

 

_If he loves you, why did he leave you? Hmmm?  Hurts, doesn’t it?_ the voice prodded, snickering, when Sven didn’t respond.

 

Despite the way it tortured the muscles in his back and made his headache even more painful, there was something innately comforting about drawing his legs up to his chest, curling over and resting his forehead on his knees.  Yes, it _did_ hurt.  _But it hurts even more to remember that it was all_ my _fault, after all…_

 

_Your fault, his fault, who cares?  He didn’t understand, did he?_

 

In spite of himself, Sven found that he was shaking his head in agreement.

 

_No one understands.  And it’s lonely, isn’t it?  Painfully lonely…_

 

Again, he nodded.  Heartache filled him; his eyes stung with the strength of it.

 

_Only one thing takes the pain away.  Right?  Only one thing makes everything better… Only one thing makes you forget…_

 

Slowly, Sven uncurled from his fetal tuck and found his feet.  He stood, wavering, for a moment, then reeled unsteadily from his room.

 

_Only one thing…_

 

One hand trailing on the wall, groping for balance, he made his way to the rec room.  So intent was he on his objective that he didn’t notice the hint of frost in the night air, or that he was without a shirt.  The chill didn’t even touch him, though the pleasant warmth that had been coursing through him was fading.  It didn’t matter.

 

Nothing mattered but relief.

 

The lights in the rec room blazed too brightly for his night vision when he flicked them on, blinding him and sending a sudden stab of agony through his head.  But he continued on regardless; his goal was within reach.

 

The small bar was not quite hidden behind a structural partition, just across from the door.  The bar top jutted out from the far wall, almost the width of the partition, and was of highly polished wood that had never seen a spill or a water ring.  Set against the wall above it were a few shelves that contained glasses of many different sizes and shapes.  The front of the bar itself opened and was actually a storage space for the liquor.

 

Aware somehow that his balance was still off kilter, Sven decided it would be safer to lean against the bar and bend over, rather than to crouch in front of the cabinet.  He grabbed the neck of the first bottle that his fingers brushed against, and drew it out, wincing as it clanked noisily against its brethren.  Straightening carefully, his head spinning, he reached up for something to drink from.  The amber liquid sloshed thickly as he uncapped the bottle and tipped it into the tumbler.

 

The neck of the bottle rattled loudly against the rim of the glass as he poured.  It was very piercing in the silent night, but the sound only gradually made its way into his sodden consciousness.  When he became aware of it, he set the bottle down beside the glass, then raised his hand again, staring at it, brow drawn into a frown.

 

He could see it trembling.  _Strange_.  The thought was distant, as if it came from far, far away.  _It’s never done that before…_

 

_No matter_ , said that voice, sounding… impatient. _Just drink and it’ll stop.  Didn’t I tell you everything would be all better?_

 

Still, it was a bit disconcerting.  He’d always been so in control of everything…

 

_But that was before._

 

Slowly, slowly, Sven reached out again for the glass.  He could barely pick it up, his fingers shook so, and the alcohol splashed chillingly over his hand as he lifted it.   Quickly, he set it down again, fear beginning to stir within him.  _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he thought.  _I’ve never been that… that_ clumsy…

 

_NO!_ The voice was desperate now.  _Pick it UP!_

 

Doing his best to ignore the voice, Sven braced himself against the bar with both arms, and just stood there, watching the glass, and the ring forming on the wood beneath it. 

 

_This is why Hunk isn’t here, you know._

 

He blinked, accepting the presence of yet another voice in his head with remarkable ease.  _What…?_

 

_That’s why Hunk’s not here.  It drove him away._

 

Something in him crumbled at the words, and he shuddered, feeling a sudden cold grip him.  “No,” he whispered.

 

_But it did._   This voice was quite soft, reasonable sounding, unlike the other, but not at all comforting.  _You helped, of course_.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, amazed at how much pain the words caused him.  “No…”

 

_You and the alcohol.  Together, you drove him_ …

 

_Just drink the damned thing!  Nothing will hurt you after that_ …

 

The heat in that demanding voice and the promise in its words were too much for Sven to ignore.  He straightened and reached out for the third time to lift the glass to his lips.

 

He’d almost made it when the rational voice murmured to him once more.  _You hurt him. You’ve hurt him over and over, because you can’t stop, can you?   What if you lost control?  What if_ …

 

He froze, the tumbler mere inches from his mouth. 

 

_What if you’d killed him?  Could you stop_ _then?_

 

The glass slipped from his nerveless fingers to smash on the floor.

 

***

Without warning, Lance came awake.  He blinked once at the darkness, wondering what had brought him out of his dream.  Just as suddenly, though, he knew, and sighed.  It might have been the creak of a floorboard, the soft click of a door, or the uneven sound of footsteps staggering down the corridor, but he knew.

 

_Just call it your “Sven-radar” and be done with it._

 

As quietly as he could, he maneuvered himself out of bed.  For a moment, he stood shivering; the night had grown chilly since he’d gone to sleep, and out from under the warmth of the blankets, his thin tee shirt and boxers weren’t enough.  But he didn’t really want to take the time to search for a robe, or even the clothes he’d shucked upon retiring.  He just headed for the door, hoping he could stop Sven before…

 

It was hard to push away the slightly lost feeling that came upon him whenever he thought too much about Sven, but he tried.  _I’m the only one who can help him,_ he thought, slipping out of his bedroom, _and I can’t do that if I’m already on the verge of tears._

 

It wasn’t like he was the mother hen of the team, either.  Usually, that role fell to Allura.  She was far more empathic than he, in any case.  But she didn’t know Sven nearly as well as she did the rest of them; he’d been injured too soon after their arrival on Arus.  Pidge was far too young to understand what Sven had endured – though Lance often felt that the boy knew much more than he let on – and none of them thought it was right to warp his psyche any more than had been done already.  Keith wanted to help, but thought that, because he was the commander, his concern would come across to Sven as more about the well-being of the team as a whole, rather than for Sven himself.  He was probably quite right, too.  He usually was, much as Lance hated to admit it.

 

And Hunk… Lance shied away from the thought.  _Sven certainly doesn’t need me to bring_ that _up._

 

He crept stealthily down the corridor, not wanting to make any noise.  _No sense waking anyone else up at this ungodly hour,_ he thought.

 

The rec room door was open, light streaming out into the shadowed corridor. 

 

He stopped in the open doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the bright glare within.  Sven was a pale form against the dark wood of the bar and cabinet, crowned with black hair, slowly growing more distinct as Lance’s eyes became accustomed to the light.  His friend stood at the bar, his back to the door.

 

Lance blinked to clear his vision.  _What…_ Then he just stared, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.  _Oh, God, his_ back _…_

 

He couldn’t look away, could only gape at Sven’s back in horror.  It had been dark when he’d helped the other to bed earlier, and Sven had been so bonelessly uncooperative that he’d decided it wasn’t worth the struggle to put his pajama top onto him.  So the sight of the shiny pink scars – some straight and thin, others ridged and jagged – was shocking.  From the base of his neck all the way down to the small of his back, and a bit further to where his pajama bottoms rested on his hips, there was hardly an inch of skin that wasn’t permanently marred.

 

High up, just above his prominent shoulder blades, there were dark spots, on top of the other scars, arranged neatly in a row across his back.  A second look told Lance they weren’t just random splotches; they were of nearly uniform size and shape, but small, and he was too far away to see them clearly.

 

He thought suddenly of the tattoo he’d been given – that they’d all been given – when they had first arrived at Arus and been captured by the Doomite ship – and a great weight fell upon him, as he realized what those markings on Sven’s back must be.

 

_Runaway slave.  Punish as you see fit.  Return to Planet Doom._

 

Every day since Sven had returned to them, Lance had wondered at the demons that had driven him – the one of them that he would have once said was the most centered, the most stable – to this.  What he had imagined made him shiver.

 

Now… now he had a whole new range of ideas to consider, ones that would do more than just give him one little frisson of fear and then quickly subside.  These images would leave him staring sleepless at the ceiling for many long hours… and he hadn’t even experienced it firsthand. 

 

It explained so much; why Sven always wore long sleeved shirts and long trousers, his skittish manner, his limp.

 

And… and everything else, too.

 

_Oh, God… Oh, Sven, I had no idea… I never dreamed Lotor would be so_ cruel…

 

The unmistakable sound of glass shattering made him jump.  When he looked again, he saw that Sven had dropped the tumbler upon the floor.  Shards of glass covered his feet, gleaming wetly under the bright illumination.  Lance heaved a soft sigh of relief to see that Sven was not moving.  _When he does move, though,_ he thought, _he’ll cut his feet to shreds.  If I can just get him out of the middle of the glass – and away from the bar – I can pick it up…_

 

He feigned a yawn, making a sleepy-sound to hopefully alert Sven to his presence without scaring him, and stretched a bit, watching the other through half-lidded eyes.   “Sven?” he called softly, around the yawn.

 

Sven started and turned his head toward the door, but did not move otherwise.  “Lance?” he replied, his voice thick, choked.  “You’re still up?”

 

With a shrug, Lance stepped into the rec room.  “I just woke up a few minutes ago,” he said.  “Dunno why.”  Then he pretended to catch sight of the mess covering Sven’s feet.  “So _that_ was what I heard when I started down the hall,” he fibbed.  “Don’t move.  I’ll get some towels or something and clean it up.”

 

“I…  all right.  Thanks.” The response was almost inaudible.  When Lance glanced at him, he saw what could only be defeat in Sven’s haggard face.  

 

Reflecting upon that for a moment, he fished about above the bar, being careful where he placed his own bare feet.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, waving a hand dismissively.  “Ah!” When he’d found the bar towels he’d been searching for, he knelt down and swiped one through the liquor, then carefully began to scoop the glass shards onto the other.

 

For a moment, Sven was able to hold everything in, all the doubts and pain, but he _had_ to know.  “Lance?”  When his friend’s blue eyes were fixed on him expectantly, he forced the question out, and was surprised at how hoarse he sounded.  “Where… where is Hunk?”

 

Lance blinked rapidly, and returned to his task, head bent, not looking at him.  “Just stand still…”

 

“Lance?  Please…”

 

Lance kept his face averted as Sven’s voice cracked, refusing to meet his confusion.  “There,” he said instead, dropping the last sizable piece of the broken tumbler onto the towel.  “I think that’s enough for now.”  He made a cursory sweep of his hand over the floor, hopefully sending any remaining miniscule shards under the lip of the bar cabinet, out of the way of causing harm, and started to sop up the rest of the spilt drink.

 

Sven fell to his knees beside him.  A loud crack that surely ought to have been painful drew Lance’s gaze back to him in surprise.  But he could see that Sven was far away, lost inside himself, lost in the memories he could not control.  He started to panic a bit as Sven’s breathing grew harsher, and thought _Oh, Christ, I’ve broken him, I’ve sent him over the edge, what did I say, I didn’t_ mean _it!_ He put an arm around Sven’s shaking shoulders, drawing him close, unable to find any words.

 

It was bad.

_“Sven, I think… I think you’ve had enough… Here, let me…” A big hand reached for the glass._

_“No!” He spun around, too quick for his balance, and delivered a vicious backhand.  It made his hand sting, cracking loudly against Hunk’s square jaw, and with enough force to turn his head.  A thin rivulet of blood trickled down from the corner of Hunk’s mouth, brilliantly red against his tanned skin._

_Slowly, he lowered his hand, stunned at what he had just done.  And he watched those soft brown eyes fill with hurt, then suddenly turn cold… a sense of everything ending crashed down on him, weighing him down, rendering him speechless and horrified as Hunk stalked from the room._

 

He could feel the nausea swirling in his stomach and pulled himself out of the memory, gasping, before it could erupt.  His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and he slowly became aware of a sharp pain from his knees, from having fallen upon them so heavily.  But neither was what dampened his eyes with unshed tears.

 

“I hit him, Lance,” he said softly, his cheeks burning.  “Yesterday.  It… it was an accident… but I hit him.”

 

“I know,” Lance replied in the same tone, squeezing his shoulder.  “He told me.”  He did not mention that it wasn’t yesterday, but two days ago.  _No need to go into that now,_ he told himself.  _I imagine it will be bad enough when he remembers on his own, without me pushing._

 

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean to,” Sven went on, almost as if Lance hadn’t spoken.  “Given all that his father did to him…”

 

“I know.”

 

“I… I remember.  What happened…  and… and…”

 

Lance took a deep breath; his eyes were starting to prickle hotly, the way they did when he was close to crying.  “Sven…”

 

“It’s my fault, Lance,” he whispered.  “It’s my fault that he… and I… and I can’t stop!  It’s my fault, and I can’t stop…” Tears started to trickle down his cheeks.

  
Unable to say anything, Lance simply pulled him closer, stroking his hair.  Sven cried nearly silently in his arms.  The only clue he really had that his friend was weeping was the spreading wet warmth on his shoulder.

 

“My fault… my fault…” Sven whispered the words, burying his face in the crook of Lance’s neck.

 

Lance closed his eyes, let his cheek rest against the rough silk of Sven’s hair.  He wanted to comfort his friend, but he couldn’t say that he wasn’t to blame.  He wasn’t even sure if rubbing his friend’s scarred back was doing more harm than good, if it was dredging up even more painful memories.

 

It was the sensation of being watched that caught Lance’s attention at last.  He glanced up and saw Keith framed in the doorway.  The captain’s hair was even more wild and tousled than usual, as if he had been roused from sleep, but his eyes were alert.  He looked like he’d been standing there for some time.

 

When he saw that he had Lance’s attention, Keith let his gaze flick to the huddled figure Lance still cradled in his arms, then raised his eyebrows in worried questioning.  In response, Lance gave a single small shake of his head and mouthed, _“Not yet.”_   Then he held up three fingers; _come back in a few minutes._   A bit reluctantly, Keith nodded and disappeared as silently as he’d come.

 

After a few minutes, Sven quieted, but his hands did not unclench from the fists he’d made in Lance’s tee shirt, nor did he raise his head.  When Lance nudged him, he found that Sven had fallen asleep – or maybe just into unconsciousness – against his shoulder.

 

He sighed.  Keith would return shortly.  _At least I won’t have to wrestle him into bed by myself this time_ , he thought, and immediately felt ashamed.  “After the past couple days, buddy, things can only get better,” he said into the dark hair feathering against his cheek.

 

Sven shifted and muttered something that Lance thought might have been “Hunk,” but he did not waken.

 

Lance closed his eyes.  “I hope.”

 

***

Sven stared at the door, dread filling every fiber of his being.  His hands were shaking again, but he wasn’t entirely sure why.  There was no reason for him to be afraid of what was in this room… was there?

 

He could feel eyes on him, but refused to turn from the door.  Keith and Lance, he knew, waited a few meters down the corridor, watching him.  They would not think any less of him if he chose not to go in, but… he still didn’t want to give them a reason.  Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

 

The smell of disinfectant assaulted him, strong in the enclosed space.  But it wasn’t the overpowering odor of ammonia that made him turn his head, trying to control his suddenly rebellious stomach.  It was the sight of Hunk, _his_ Hunk, lying motionless in the hospital bed, his face as white as the pillow beneath his head, tubes and wires connecting him to the beeping, whirring machines that surrounded him.

 

Sven’s hand trembled visibly as he brought it up to his mouth.  _He_ had done this.  It was _his_ fault that Hunk lay there, still as death.  The wave of guilt accompanying that realization was strong enough to make him gag, and he spent several long moments fighting the urge to bring up what little he’d choked down for breakfast.

 

_Hunk frowned forbiddingly.  “Sven, give me the keys.”_

_“I can drive.” He waved a hand dismissively and lurched toward the car._

_“No, you can’t.  Just give me the keys.  I’ll drive.”_

_Abruptly furious, he turned around and snarled, “I said I can drive, so get in the fucking car!”_

_And Hunk’s eyes had gone hard and distant again, but he climbed into the passenger’s seat without further protest._

 

He turned around again, eyes tearing, and took an unsteady step toward the bed, then another. 

 

_“Sven, look out!  The tree…”_

_He tromped down on the brake… but the car rocketed forward…_

_“No, stop!  Stop!”_

 

Finally, standing at the edge of the bed, he took one of the big, slack hands in his and gripped it as if it were a lifeline.

 

“Hi, love,” he tried to say, but his voice broke, and all he could do was clutch Hunk’s hand even tighter.  He felt his knees threatening to give out suddenly, and sank onto the edge of the bed, one hand reaching out of its own accord to touch a fading bruise on a pale cheek.

 

He wanted more than anything to see those bottomless brown eyes blink up at him sleepily, to see the warm smile, to hear that cracked bass voice – even rougher than normal upon waking – say “Hey, babe,” and melt his heart.  But all he could hear was the steady _whish-whish_ of the ventilator, the _bleep_ of the heart monitor.  Hunk’s eyelids never even fluttered at the touch of his hand.

 

Even though he’d heard the doctor say the words “coma” and “injuries” and “doubtful”, it hadn’t prepared him for this.

 

_Nothing_ could have prepared him for this.

 

He sat there for several minutes, just holding Hunk’s hand in both his own and searching for something – _anything_ – to say that would convey all that he felt.  Even the “I love you” that he wanted so to say didn’t seem enough.

 

When he opened his mouth to whisper it anyway, a tight sob came out instead.  It was only then he realized his cheeks were wet.

 

As if that one was a signal, sobs began to wrack his too-thin frame once more.  Unmindful of the tubes and wires that seemed to run everywhere from his lover’s still form, Sven bent forward until his head rested against Hunk’s broad shoulder.  And he _cried_.

 

One hand worked its way from between their bodies and drifted up to cup Hunk’s pale cheek, turning his head slightly.  Stubble pricked his fingers as he caressed the other’s face.  He whispered into Hunk’s throat, “I love you” and “I’m sorry” and a thousand other things he couldn’t say aloud.  When his eyes burned from all the tears he’d shed, and he could cry no more, he still lay there, taking deep shuddering breaths and stroking Hunk’s cheek.

 

He gasped as something touched his back, and pushed himself up just far enough to look down at Hunk, hoping…

 

But his eyes were still closed, his face expressionless, and Sven felt his heart plummet.

 

“Sven?”

 

He swiveled around at the sound of his name, swiping at his face with the back of one hand, and found Lance standing beside him.  His friend’s mobile features were twisted in sympathy.

 

Before Sven could even acknowledge his presence, Lance laid a hand on his arm, saying, “The doctor said only a few minutes.  Come on, let’s go before he realizes that Keith is just distracting him…”

 

The look Sven shot him was so full of heartache that it made him flinch.  Then the Swede turned his attention back to Hunk, and brushed the heavy black bangs – curling over a stark white bandage instead of his usual orange headband – out of his eyes, seemingly ignoring the words.

 

Lance was just about to remind him that they had to leave when Sven murmured something to Hunk that he didn’t quite catch.  Then, moving slowly, creakily, as if his short time in this room had aged him far beyond his years, he stood.  Lance stepped quickly aside as Sven stumbled past him toward the door.

 

For a moment, he wondered what Sven had said.  It hadn’t been in Common, that was for sure.  _Maybe it was in Swedish?_   _I don’t want to know,_ he decided finally, and followed him out.

 

So he didn’t see that one of Hunk’s huge hands twitched ever so slightly where Sven had released it.  And even if he had seen it, he would have dismissed it as wishful thinking, as his own longing that Hunk would wake, and not mentioned it to Sven at all, not because of spite or ill-feeling, but simply because he didn’t want to cause his friend any more pain.

 

The merest flicker of motion… and then, nothing.

 

***

March 3, 2004


End file.
